I remember suddenly what Megan told me about suicide. The window of time between the decision to take one’s life and the act of doing it might be as narrow as a few minutes.
Maybe the rule holds true for murder as well.
25
WHEN I FINALLY THINK TO CHECK THE TIME, I’M SHOCKEDthat it’s close to nine o’clock. Despite my plan not to linger, I’ve done just that, too absorbed in my thoughts to see how late it was getting. I look around for the waiter and after catching his eye and getting the bill, I pay it and begin my walk home.
The main street in town is still busy, with cars cruising up and down and people clustered in front of the few bars and cafés, as well as the local ice cream shop. Most of those I see wear the happy grins of tourists who’ve squirreled away their vacation time until late August and are finally enjoying it. The mix also seems to include a fair share of weekenders—of which I used to be one.
When I’d broken things off with Jamie, I knew it meant there’d be no regular weekend plans for me this summer, that the most I could hope for was an occasional invitation from a friend or a last-minute trip on my own. As I told him the last time I saw him, I’d spent many of my recent Saturdays and Sundays hanging out on the rooftop garden of my apartment building, acting as if warm-weather weekends in the empty city held a certain magic for me. Which wasn’t true at all. But when I get back to New York this week, at least September will be on the near horizon and I won’t have to think as much about the summer that never was.
As soon as I turn onto McAlpin Street, the crowd thins, andbefore long it’s only me and the shadow I cast under the glow of the streetlamps. I pick up my pace, turning around now and then to check behind me. The street is deserted.
My phone pings from my purse, startling me. I fish it out to see a text from Sam.
Everything okay?
What do you mean?
Your car’s in the driveway but you aren’t answering your door.
Walked into town for dinner. What’s up?
I wanted to talk to you.
Ok, I’ll be back in 5.
I’m on your stoop.
To my annoyance, my heart is thrumming at the thought of seeing him. That’s another thing I’m going to do when I get back to New York. Drive Sam Morgan from my mind once and for all, even if it takes a visit to a hypnotist.
I turn onto Ash Street, and from half a block away I can see him sitting on the stoop, his long, lanky legs extended onto the sidewalk. It’s been five months since I returned to a home where someone was waiting for me, and it feels ridiculously reassuring to know he’s there and that I won’t be looking over my shoulder as I unlock the door.
When I’m starting up the front walk, Sam rises and takes a few steps toward me. From the porch light I see he’s in a weathered black T-shirt, shorts, and sandals, more casual than last night.
“I hope I’m not interrupting any of your plans,” he says.
“No, I was headed home. Do you want to come in?”
“Yeah, if you don’t mind.”
I brush past him, unlock the door, and proceed into the house first, glancing around. So far at least, nothing seems weird. I open the door wider and usher Sam into the living room.
“Speaking of cars,” I say, “where’s yours?” I hadn’t seen it outside.
“A few houses down on the block. I decided not to leave it directly in front of the house again.”
“Why? You don’t want to sully my reputation with the neighbors?”
He smiles faintly. “You never struck me as the kind of woman who cares what the neighbors think. It’s other people I’m thinking of.”
“Who do you mean?”
“Drew. I heard what an asshole he was to you.”
“You did?” I exclaim. “Who told you?”
“Mel.”
